


Strange Things Over Baker Street

by kynikos



Category: Sherlock (TV), Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: (a little bit), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Hugh Everett's Many Worlds interpretation, I hate st3, Time Travel, but s3 never happened, for both shows, post-s2
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-28
Updated: 2020-09-25
Packaged: 2021-03-06 15:55:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,998
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26161501
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kynikos/pseuds/kynikos
Summary: When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.If the impossible decides to eliminateyou, however, whatever remains will fit in a small coffin and get buried by people who call themselves State troopers.(In which Sherlock Holmes ends up in 1985 Hawkins, takes a case against his will, and becomes a much less central character than either he or the author would have liked.)
Relationships: Eleven | Jane Hopper/Mike Wheeler, Maxine "Max" Mayfield/Lucas Sinclair, Sherlock Holmes & John Watson
Comments: 16
Kudos: 16





	1. a study in slime

_November 11 th, 2010_

_London, United Kingdom_

It was a bright cold day in November, and all the clocks were striking eleven.

The knocker on the door of 221b Baker Street was askew. It tended to be like that; Sherlock set it aslant every time he entered or exited the building. John would have liked to imagine that there was a reason for it _aside from_ the fact that it irritated Mycroft. But he had lived with this man for long enough that he knew well that pettiness was a powerful enough driving force for Sherlock to do… anything, really. He had once paid half a dozen lorry drivers to stall traffic along Mycroft’s commute in order to make him five minutes late for a meeting about Kazakhstan, for Christ’s sake.

John considered straightening it. He wasn’t obsessive-compulsive, not by a long shot. Things being out of place didn’t get under his skin in the same way as they did Mycroft. But still… it _was_ crooked. He reached out to put it in place, and then decided it wasn’t worth it. Sherlock would know; Sherlock always knew; and the result would be a half-hour-long, detailed description of John’s shortcomings – most probably regarding his friends or sex life or both – deduced from the length of his hair or the state of his shoelaces.

He pushed the door open and walked up the stairs. Outside the flat door he tugged on his sweater and adjusted his sleeves – not for presentability, no, there was no way in hell he would admit, even to himself, that he cared about how he cleaned up in front of Sherlock – but because he wanted to be as sure as possible that he wouldn’t hear about his friends or sex life _anyway_.

He knocked and entered.

‘Close the door, John,’ Sherlock barked as John closed the door. He was bent over something on the table. Whatever it was, it smelled like hell reheated, and John choked and went to the window.

‘No, not the window.’

‘That _stinks_ , Sherlock.’

‘Does it? Don’t think about the smell. You'll adjust more quickly.’

John pulled his collar over his nose. ‘What is it?’ he asked, only half-expecting an answer. He went over to the mantel and examined the assorted notes and letters pinned there by the Leatherman.

‘Don’t know. Found it.’

‘You’re examining shit you picked up somewhere? You're that bored?’

‘It’s… not shit,’ Sherlock said. John gave him a look.

‘So what is it?’

‘I don’t know,’ Sherlock repeated. ‘I found it on the windowsill. Inside.’

John went over and took a look. It was… nothing much. Slime. Goo. Whatever you called it, there was a lot of it. Sherlock had it in half-a-dozen containers, some on Bunsen burners, others mixing with various chemicals.

‘On the inside?’

‘Look. But don’t touch. It’s… corrosive.’

And he was in fact wearing a bandage on his right index.

‘Are you alright?’

‘Fine.’

John recrossed the room to the window. On the sill was a dark stain, almost like a burn, with a sheen of the same slime Sherlock was now experimenting on. ‘This ate into the wood?’

‘Yes. And however it got in, it’s been there for less then five hours – I was at the window before I went to bed, nothing interesting, I woke up and it was there.’

‘You slept for less than five hours?’

‘That’s not the point.’

‘And you don’t know what it is at all?’

‘I’ll take it into the lab in a bit. For now all I know is that it’s highly volatile and that it reacts _violently_ to carbon-based matter and not at all to anything else. Probably poison secreted by some animal as a defensive mechanism.’

‘You think someone put it there to… hurt you?’

‘Probably not. Whoever put it there must have been clever to get in and out without my knowing how. But to think it would… _hurt_ me is stupid. It’s a warning, or a threat, or a message, or something. I want to know what it _is_ rather than why it’s there, though.’

 _Pop_. The lamp over Sherlock’s chair blew out.

‘Could you replace that, John,’ Sherlock muttered, not looking up.

 _Pop._ The bulb right above the kitchen table blew out.

Sherlock looked up at that one. ‘That too.’

‘Is the power bad around here?’

Sherlock sighed. ‘I don’t know, John. I leave that sort of thing to Mrs. Hudson. It is her _job_ , after all.’

With a buzz and a click, every light in the flat blinked off.

‘ _Mrs. Hudson!_ ’ Sherlock roared.

‘She’s not in.’

‘What? Of course she’s in. It’s Thursday.’

‘She had a dentist’s appointment.’

Sherlock stared in disbelief, then shrugged and carried on his experiments, seemingly uninhibited by the near-total lack of light.

‘I’ll go see if I can find what’s wrong,’ John said, sighing mentally.

‘Good.’

John made his way to the flat door and stepped out onto the landing.

 _Hum._ At least, that was the word he would have used to describe the sound. But it was a weird hum, a deep and almost rumbling noise, reminiscent of power lines or a tiger’s purr.

He shook his head and started downstairs.

Halfway down, something screamed.

* * *

_November 11 th, 1985_

_Hawkins, Indiana, U.S.A._

There were pinecones in the driveway. Five of them, lined up in a row. There weren’t any pine trees in the Wheelers’ yard, or any in the neighborhood within a mile radius. If Ted Wheeler had been a more observant man, or even a less oblivious one, he may have noticed. But he was not, and he did not, and he backed his car out of the garage and down the driveway without so much as a second glance.

When Mike Wheeler, however, came out of the house, backpack slung over one shoulder, he noticed the pinecones immediately.

‘Five,’ he whispered.

And five it was. Five o’clock, to be precise, and he had to dash out of his last class without saying anything to the rest of the party, cycling madly through town (accidentally knocking a bag of groceries out of old Mrs. Jacobs’ hands on the way) towards the cabin in the woods.

But he made it – knocking on the door at 4:59, one minute to spare – and the smile Eleven gave him when the door flew open was worth the certainty that his parents would hear from Mrs. Jacobs.

‘Hopper?’ he asked.

‘At work.’

They didn’t mind how many inches the bedroom door was open if they were the only ones in the house. And it wasn’t like they were really _doing_ anything – clothes stayed on, hands remained above the waist. So it startled Mike just a bit when, halfway through the half-hour they were _certain_ Hop would be away, El stiffened and pulled away from him as if stung.

‘What…?’ he started. She shook her head, lips tight and eyes wide. ‘Hopper?’ he whispered – he hadn’t heard the car, it couldn’t be – but she shook her head again and laid a finger over his lips. She closed her eyes, focusing, _listening_ in the way only she could, senses supernatural and separate from the purely physical.

Finally she spoke. ‘Demogorgon.’

‘What? Is it…’ Mike sprang to his feet. ‘It’s here? It’s coming?’

‘No. But it’s alive. And…’ her forehead wrinkled in confusion. ‘I don’t know, Mike. It’s… somewhere else. Not…’ She gestured around her, indicating _everything_ as best she could. ‘Not here.’

‘The upside down?’

‘No.’ She shook her head, still confused. ‘I don’t know the words.’

‘That’s alright,’ Mike said. ‘It’s okay. But… will it come back? Will it come for us?’

She nodded, fear and uncertainty and _anger_ in her eyes. ‘Yes.’

* * *

The Party met at Will’s house. Hopper would not have been particularly happy, had he known, but it was better than anywhere _public_. It was in the forest, anyway.

‘El felt the Demogorgon,’ Mike announced when they were seated around the table, having ignored Dustin’s repeated insistence that they _tell us what the hell is going on_. ‘It’s alive. It’s back.’

‘But…’ Lucas said. ‘You _killed_ it. We saw it turn to ash. You're telling me _that_ wasn’t enough?’

El shook her head, but said nothing. She was clearly as unsure as any of them.

‘What do you mean, she felt it,’ Will asked. ‘Like… the same way I felt the Mind Flayer?’

El shook her head again. ‘No. Like how I feel you. Or mama. I can…’ she gestured, frustrated by her imperfect command of language. ‘Feel it moving.’

‘So where is it?’ Dustin asked. ‘What’s it doing?’

El looked to Mike.

‘She doesn’t know,’ Mike said. ‘It’s not in the upside down. But it’s not in our world either, right, El?’

She nodded, relieved that she wouldn’t have to try and explain _that_.

‘There's _another_ dimension?’ Dustin asked, clearly more amazed at the possibilities of more dimensions than worried at the idea of the Demogorgon’s return.

‘No,’ El said. ‘Not another dimension. This one, but different.’

‘Hugh Everett. Many worlds,’ Dustin breathed. ‘Remember what Mr. Clarke said?’

El stared, clearly lost.

‘What?’ Max asked, speaking up for the first time. ‘What’re you talking about?’

‘All possible outcomes of every quantum measurement exist in a different, parallel universe,’ Dustin said. ‘There’s no wave function collapse because, when it’s observed, each wave function’s eigenstate resolves into its own separate reality. A multiverse, basically.’

‘You could have just said ‘multiverse’ and not been a nerd,’ Max pointed out. ‘And I _bet_ that you just memorized that out of somewhere.’

Dustin sighed dramatically. ‘There’s a lot of universes and they're all a little different,’ he said. ‘Is that better?’

‘Yeah,’ Lucas said. ‘Better. You didn’t say the word ‘eigenstate’, so it’s a lot better.’

‘No,’ El said again. ‘No... eigenstate. Not a different universe.’

Dustin slumped and the rest of them frowned. ‘But you said…’ Will started to say, but trailed off. El rested her chin in her hands.

‘Wait,’ Mike said. ‘What if…’ He hesitated. ‘Never mind.’

‘What?’ El asked.

‘Is it… in a different _time_?’ Mike asked.

Most people, when faced with such a question – even super-powered people – would have given thought or at least a dramatic pause before answering. But El said ‘Yes,’ smiled at Mike for figuring out what she was trying to say, and put her chin back in her hands.

Everyone started talking at once, the volume of the room getting exponentially louder as each member of the Party tried to talk over everyone else. El raised her eyebrows and glanced toward the door.

‘Listen!’ Dustin finally roared above the noise. ‘Everyone shut _up_ for the love of _God_ , I want to hear El!’

They finally quieted. El frowned at Dustin. She hadn’t actually had anything more to say, but they were all looking at her expectantly. ‘In a different time,’ she confirmed.

‘In the past? Or the future?’ Mike asked.

She shrugged.

‘Oh, Jesus,’ Dustin moaned. ‘If it’s the future we’re so screwed.’

‘Can you tell where it is?’ Mike pressed, ignoring Dustin. ‘I mean, in the world.’

‘That way,’ El said, pointing east, which did not help whatsoever.

‘Far away? Or close?’

‘Far.’

‘Is it hurting people?’ Lucas asked.

El frowned. ‘I… I can’t see,’ she said. ‘I don’t know.’

‘What if you had the blindfold? And the radio?’ Dustin asked.

Mike spun. ‘No! Remember what happened last time?’

‘Last time what?’

‘Last time she saw the Demogorgon in the Void? She accidentally made the gateway!’

‘But if it’s in the future then it’s already here,’ Dustin argued. He frowned. ‘I mean… you know.’

‘But it’s alone. All the gates are closed. The Mind Flayer’s cut off, everything’s good. Except for the Demogorgon. And if it’s in the future, and far away, then we’ll have time to prepare.’

He looked around. ‘Okay? Lucas? Max?’

They nodded in agreement.

‘Will?’

‘It doesn’t make sense,’ Will said.

‘What doesn’t?’

‘The future. El sensing it. Why’s she sensing it _now_? I mean, time travel is confusing, but… If it’s in the future then shouldn’t she have been able to sense it all along? It’s… always _been_ in the future, if that makes sense…’

The Party frowned, trying to understand. ‘I think I get it,’ Dustin said. ‘Yeah, El. Why haven’t you noticed it before?’

‘It’s alive,’ El said, as if it should have been obvious. ‘It’s coming back.’

‘Holy _shit_ ,’ Dustin said, a half-second before everyone else echoed the same sentiment. ‘Holy shit. How long?’

‘We couldn’t know,’ Will said, as El shrugged. ‘If it can move through time, it could come back… any time it likes. It’ll pick a date and be there. We know it’s later than _today_ , since it hasn’t come back yet. But from now on…’ He trailed off.

‘Since when are you the time travel expert?’ Lucas asked.

‘I've read about it,’ Will said, a bit sheepishly. ‘I'm not… an expert, or anything.’

‘I bet Mr. Clarke is,’ Dustin muttered. ‘I bet he could tell us if he was _here_ and not in stupid Florida.’

‘So we just… wait?’ Mike said.

‘El’ll feel it when it comes back,’ Lucas pointed out. ‘And as soon as she does, she’ll tell us. Right, El?’

‘Yes.’

The Party dispersed. They had homework to do – Dustin, in particular, had a particularly arduous book report in Mrs. Collins’ English class, which he was dreading.

It was due Friday – the 15th.

Dustin died on Thursday. So perhaps he needn’t have bothered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, so, I started a thing. Which has no update schedule whatsoever and is only partially finished.
> 
> I have a medical condition which prevents me from sticking with a fandom. (I started watching Umbrella Academy, so I assume I'll start liking it soon. So far... no. But there must be some reason it's so hyped, right?)
> 
> Survive!


	2. the vanishing of john watson (and sherlock holmes)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Before I go on, I should say - I have now finished Umbrella Academy and it most certainly deserved the hype. When I wrote all that, before, I was young and foolish and had only seen the first episode. My eyes have been opened. 
> 
> (Also, 'Istanbul (Not Constantinople)' has one of the best goddamn _sounds_ of any song I've ever heard. I owe that to UA too.)
> 
> Anyway:

_November 11 th, 2010_

_London, United Kingdom_

‘Sherlock?’ John called, already stumbling back up the stairs, heart pounding. That had not been – had not been a _normal_ scream. If Sherlock had dropped a Bunsen burner on his foot, or a cat had somehow entered the room and had a book thrown at it, or a child wandered in off the street and seen one of the frozen heads Sherlock had in the freezer, it would have been _normal._ But this was different, and wrong, and John was already afraid. ‘Sherlock? What was that?’

He turned the knob but the door didn’t open.

‘Sherlock? What the hell is going on in there?’ He shook the door and threw his weight against it. Something in the lock was jammed, he could hear it. ‘Sherlock!’

Finally it gave way and he fell into the room, scrambling to stay upright. His eyes flashed around the room, old Army habits falling into place as if he were in a combat zone. Window – corner – fireplace – behind the chair – kitchen – dear God what was _that_ …

Sherlock was on his back, crawling back, eyes wide, mouth open, for once stunned into inaction. Because something was in the wall, pushing through it, and the wall was moving like rubber, and the thing behind it was a claw.

‘Sherlock, what the hell is that,’ John spat, forcing himself to move and pull Sherlock to his feet. He went to the drawer in the desk and the Sig-Sauer almost flew into his hand – safety off, hands tremor-free because they _had to be_ , this really was a combat situation – and was covering the thing coming through the wall.

‘That’s not… possible,’ Sherlock said.

He shot, three times. He didn’t miss. But it didn’t make much of a difference either – if the bullets penetrated, he didn’t see any blood. The thing kept pushing – _it looks like it’s giving birth_ thought some incredibly unhelpful part of his mind – and he gave up on the gun and turned to Sherlock, who was still standing there, mouth agape.

‘What the hell do we do?’ John screamed at him.

‘That’s the poison,’ Sherlock muttered, his voice barely audible over the unnatural roaring coming from the thing in the wall. ‘There—’

And yes, there was the same corrosive stain, spreading from the writhing rubber-section of the wall. ‘That’s where it came from?’ John asked.

‘Fire,’ Sherlock said, eyes still wide and panicky, as if he was now working on autopilot from somewhere deep within the mind palace. ‘Heat. John, turn on the gas.’

‘The gas?’

‘The stove.’

John dove for the stove and threw all the knobs to full. _Hiss_.

Sherlock was pulling at the gas control for the fire. ‘You're going to burn down the building, Sherlock,’ John called. ‘Mrs. Hudson.’

‘She’s at the dentist’s,’ Sherlock answered.

The membrane-that-used-to-be-wall broke. One clawed hand tore free and found purchase on the kitchen wall just above the fridge.

‘Now?’ John called.

‘Lighter,’ Sherlock answered, tossing the lighter. John caught it and flicked it on. ‘Wait.’

The _thing_ pushed its head through.

‘Jesus Christ,’ John said, not realizing he was speaking.

‘Now,’ Sherlock called.

John threw the lighter and dove for the sofa.

 _Boom_. It was not as impressive as some of the other explosions which had graced 221b Baker Street, but it was something. It was really two fireballs, the gas above the stove igniting and then igniting the gas from the fireplace. Together they set fire to a lot of the flat, including the _thing_ , which screamed and writhed about in the kitchen, flailing and smashing things.

‘Shoot it,’ Sherlock suggested. John did, until the magazine was empty. 

‘Go.’ John obeyed, throwing open the door, hand out to drag Sherlock along behind him, and –

Hands over his mouth. Something in his eyes. Beside him, Sherlock grunted in surprise. They were being pushed – shoved into the kitchen – by their unseen attackers. John struggled as he was forced toward the gaping hole in the wall, but the hand over his mouth was holding a rag soaked in something and he was already beginning to lose consciousness.

‘John,’ he heard Sherlock say. ‘Help.’

And then he was in the hole, and _through_ the hole, and his vision faded completely.

* * *

_November 12 th, 1985_

_Hawkins, Indiana, U.S.A._

Everyone was on edge. Had been since yesterday, when they discovered that the Demogorgon was alive and coming back. The worst part, Will decided, was that they couldn’t _do_ anything. All they could do was wait.

‘I hate waiting,’ Dustin announced at lunch, the five of them huddled around the table.

‘No shit, Sherlock,’ Lucas said. ‘But it’s not like there’s anything else we can do.’

‘We could at least set up a plan,’ Mike suggested. ‘Like, traps and stuff, so we’re ready when it does come back. Remember when Nancy and Jonathan caught it on fire that one time? It really didn’t like that.’

‘Okay,’ Lucas said. ‘Meet at your house after school.’

‘What about the cabin?’ Mike asked.

Lucas and Max rolled their eyes almost in sync.

‘I'm serious!’ Mike protested. ‘We kind of need El if we’re going to plan!’

‘Sure,’ Max said. ‘We get it.’

The rest of the Party agreed more or less readily, and spent the rest of the day Worrying with a capital W.

When they finally met, nerves heightened from the day spent stressing and speculating, the gathering was anticlimactic at best. Dustin tried to begin the meeting with a rousing ‘Alright, guys,’ and then lapsed into silence when it became clear that no one really knew exactly what they were there for in the first place.

‘So, what are we doing, exactly?’ Max asked eventually.

‘Traps,’ Dustin declared. ‘Plans.’

‘We could lay bait like you did for the demodogs,’ Will suggested, and that was apparently all it took to rouse them to action.

After a half-hour of heated discussion and drawing on various maps, they eventually decided to leave a trail of raw meat – ‘as bloody as we can get it’, Dustin said, and Mike gagged – to the junkyard.

(‘The junkyard has never worked for you guys as a base of operations,’ Max pointed out. ‘It’s 0 for 2: hiding from the bad men, and trying to catch Dart.’

‘It’s the most easily defensible position,’ Mike insisted, with all the lofty wisdom of the Party’s DM. So the junkyard it was.)

They would set up a gasoline trap, like before, along with a spring-loaded net which Dustin assured them he could rig up to one of the old buses. When the Demogorgon was burned, tied up, and confused, El would kill it.

And here they ran into the first major problem in their planning session.

‘Wait a minute,’ Lucas said. ‘Whatever El did to it last time obviously didn’t kill it. Why would it be any different this time?’

‘Because…’ Mike began defensively, and trailed off. ‘…Actually, yeah, why would it, El?’

Eleven, who had been silently watching their preparations from the couch, straightened and squared her shoulders. ‘It’s different,’ she said. ‘I’m stronger, now. My sister taught me. I won’t let it escape away to somewhere else.’

This satisfied everyone but Dustin.

* * *

_Somewhere just outside time_

John could feel nothing. He could see nothing. He could hear nothing. He floated, weightless and invisible, in the most complete blackness he had ever known.

‘Am I dead?’ he tried to say, but found he no longer had control of his mouth.

(It is not a pleasant experience to travel through the Void while chloroformed.)

He tried again. ‘Hello?’ This time what came out was a hearty ‘o!’ It echoed.

Something swam into and out of focus just before his eyes.

‘John,’ it said. ‘Clear your head. Get up.’ John would have ignored this voice completely – it was Sherlock’s, after all – if it weren’t for the underlying panic beneath the words.

‘Where are we?’ John finally managed, rubbing his eyes. He took a breath.

‘I have no idea.’

It was nothing, if nothing was a place. Water beneath them and utter darkness around them. They were illuminated from some light source that surrounded and lit them equally from all angles, making for a disconcerting loss of depth perception.

Not that there were many things to bump into. Or any distance by which to judge depth.

‘Where are we?’ John asked again, at a complete loss for any intelligent words.

‘I don’t know,’ Sherlock said, and it was a testament to how unsure _he_ was that he didn’t make a biting comment about John’s repetitiveness.

‘Are we dead?’ John asked.

‘I don’t think so. I certainly hope not.’

‘…Why?’

‘It would certainly be a form of hell to be stuck in this void for eternity with only each other for company.’

Ouch.

John started to walk.

‘Where are you going?’

‘Maybe there’s a way out.’

‘…I doubt it.’ Sherlock sank to the floor with a soft splash. ‘Whatever that was…’ He trailed off and his breathing sped up. ‘My god.’

‘Sherlock?’

‘I'm going into shock, John. Do something…’

Something screamed. Again.

‘It’s coming back. It’s coming in here…’

‘Sherlock, stop talking and take deep breaths.’

Another scream.

John started back toward Sherlock, but the water around his feet began to… thicken, like hot glue setting. Instead of splashes, his steps made squelching sounds, as if he was walking through mud. ‘Sherlock, do you feel that?’ Sherlock was already forcing himself upright.

‘Yes. Something’s changing.’

A third scream. The liquid at their feet _pulled_.

‘What the hell was that?’ John shouted, and for the second time that day he blacked out, as the liquid at their feet sucked them down and in.

When they came to, they weren’t in London.

They weren’t even in 2010.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comment and subscribe and kudos and everything. This chapter was very short so I think the 14 chapter estimation was optimistically low. 
> 
> Survive!


	3. the american problem

_November 12 th, 1985_

_Hawkins, Indiana, U.S.A._

The Hess farm used to be up and running, back in the 60s. Now Hess’ daughter owned it, but she lived in California and had married a lawyer and couldn’t have cared less what happened to the farm. She had tried selling it, but… it was Hawkins. No one bought Hawkins property.

John and Sherlock crashed through the ceiling and landed on what was left of the dining table. Well, Sherlock did. John fell the extra three feet and landed on the floor, which was uncarpeted wood and hurt like hell.

‘I would ask what happened,’ John asked. ‘But I don’t think it would do much good.’

Sherlock lay motionless on the table, eyes open and unblinking.

‘Sherlock?’

‘I am now _in_ shock, John,’ Sherlock managed to grind out. ‘I imagine I’ll start shaking in a moment.’

‘For God’s sake, Sherlock. You can suppress your _tickle_ reflex, you can sure as hell make yourself not go into shock. Mind palace?’

‘Mm.’ Sherlock squeezed his eyes shut.

‘While you deal with that, I’ll… have a look around. See where we are. Yeah?’

He got no answer and took it as a yes.

‘Farmhouse. Everything looks – very old fashioned. Probably belongs to an elderly person… but it’s all in bad shape which means…’ He sighed and turned back to Sherlock. ‘This is your thing, you know. You should be the one doing this.’

Sherlock, eyes closed and mind probably far away, ignored him.

‘There’s dust and cobwebs everywhere. This place hasn’t been lived in for a while.’ He went to the window and looked out. It was late morning. All he could see were trees, more trees, and a dirt road leading past a mailbox and away into the forest. ‘We’re in some sort of… forested area? Probably somewhere northern…’

‘Stop talking,’ Sherlock said, and swung his legs around and off the table.

John did. Sherlock swept the room with his eyes. ‘We’re in the U.S.’

‘What?’

‘I said stop talking. United States farmland, probably the Midwest…’

‘How on earth can you tell it’s United States farmland?’

‘The electrical sockets are dual-pronged and there are tractor tracks in the yard.’

‘Oh.’

‘Outskirts of a town called Hawkins. The town proper is about a mile away.’

‘No. No, there’s no _bloody_ way you actually…’

Sherlock flashed that smile of his which was either irritating or frightening. ‘There’s a map on the wall, John.’

‘…Oh.’

‘Shall we go?’

‘We’re not going to address the fact that a monster came through the wall and dragged us halfway around the world? Or the… dark place?’

‘Of course not.’

‘Do you want to tell me why?’

‘Because if I allow myself to think about it I will suffer a nervous breakdown and be rendered completely incapable.’

‘Alright then.’

Both of them were, thankfully, fully clothed – John because he hadn’t bothered to take off his coat when he had entered the flat, and Sherlock because he presumably slept with his on. It wasn’t unbearably cold, but they made sure to walk at a brisk pace along the barely-paved road.

‘I’ve always wanted to visit here,’ John said.

‘By ‘here’ I assume you don’t mean the town of Hawkins, Indiana.’

‘The American Midwest, I mean.’

‘Which is in fact situated rather east of center.’

‘Well, they use Fahrenheit here, so I suppose it shouldn’t be that much of a surprise.’

* * *

Mike, about eleven seconds after the bell rang, was on his bike and racing to Hopper’s cabin. The rest of the Party caught up to him half a mile from school.

‘Where are you going?’ Lucas asked.

‘Where do you think I’m going?’ Mike answered. None of them had so much as slowed down.

‘I mean, why so fast?’

‘El felt something!’

‘A monster from D&D is probably coming back in time to kill us, your best friend’s girlfriend has superpowers, and she told him she felt something by reading his mind or some shit,’ Max said to Lucas. ‘And the craziest part is that he waited till school _ended_ to go talk to her about it.’

‘I was going to go sooner!’ Mike called back. ‘But she said to wait till Hopper wasn’t home! It wasn’t urgent!’

‘Man is _whipped_ ,’ Lucas whispered – well, shout-whispered, since everything they said fought with the crisp November breeze – to Max.

‘I heard that!’

As they rounded a rise and dip in the road, they passed a pair of men walking in the opposite direction. None of the members of the Party were particularly subtle, so all of them craned their heads around to stare as they biked by. The men were wearing… _weird_ clothes, like old fashioned Victorian suits mixed with the sort of thing Mike’s dad would have worn to golf. (When he got a chance to golf, that is. There weren’t golf courses anywhere near Hawkins.)

‘Who do you think _they_ are?’ Dustin asked when the men were out of earshot. ‘Where are they going?’

‘Where are they coming from?’ Max added.

‘They looked like spies,’ Will said.

‘Jesus Christ. There better not be spies at the same time as the goddamn Demogorgon. That’s too much at once. One threat at a time, please?’ Dustin begged the universe.

By the time they made it to the cabin, they had worked it out – the two men were Russian spies who were investigating Hawkins because of the Gate and the paranormal activity surrounding the town.

‘Maybe they’re trying to reopen the Gate,’ Max suggested.

‘That… is the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard,’ Dustin said. Since he was Dustin, he didn’t stop there. ‘Why on earth would they want to open the Gate? Here, in Hawkins? What could they possibly get out of having a Gate open _here_? And where would they build it? Underground? I mean, sure, they could have a secret underground lab or something, if they had started working on it in 1925… And how would they get the Gate open? It was El who opened it before, remember? You think there’s another Eleven out there working with the Russians, or you think they invented a magic portal machine to do it for them?’

‘Okay, Je _sus_ ,’ Max snapped, as they pulled to a stop just before Hopper’s tripwire. ‘I was just thinking out loud. I didn’t actually think that’s what they were.’

‘…Right. Sorry.’

‘Oh, man,’ Mike sighed.

‘What – oh.’

It was Hopper, standing on the porch, arms crossed, scowling like they were going to start taxing scowls and he had to get it all out now. ‘So,’ he said, in that trademark way of his which wasn’t so much the beginning of a statement, as a promise of unpleasantness in the coming moments.

‘So,’ said Dustin, the bravest of the five teenagers, who immediately remembered that he was in fact still a teenager and measured up just around Hopper’s shoulder. ‘…I regret that.’

‘Yeah.’ Hopper ground out. ‘Get. Inside.’

They did, and only when they were all seated around the coffee table – El absent, probably relegated to her room while Chief Jim Hopper meted out some discipline – did Hopper begin to speak.

He spoke for several minutes, pausing only for breath. He touched on all of the expected topics – lack of responsibility, disobedience to their authoritative figures, disrespect for rules and safety, general stupidity of what they were doing, when would they learn that their actions have consequences, didn’t they care about keeping El safe, they didn’t know _who_ could be watching. When he seemed like he was done, Max raised her hand.

‘Yes,’ he said.

‘Actually, there were two men on the street who looked pretty suspicious.’

‘Who? Where?’

‘Just past Carter’s footpath as we were coming here,’ Lucas said. ‘They were wearing weird outfits and none of us had ever seen them before.’

‘Carter’s footpath? They were just… walking?’

‘Yeah. No car or anything anywhere along the road. We couldn’t tell where they had come from.’

‘Weird outfits, huh.’ Hopper rubbed his face. ‘Alright. I’ll go check it out.’ He stood and grabbed his hat off the hook on the wall. ‘And _don’t_ think this means you’re getting off easy. We will talk later, believe me.’

He opened the door, stepped out, and closed it with the slam of a man who knows where he is going and what he plans to say when he gets there.

‘I would hate to be those guys if Hop picks them up,’ Lucas said.

‘You know they're probably just out for a walk,’ Max said. ‘And we just sicced an angry Hopper on them.’

‘I would _hate_ to be those guys,’ Lucas repeated.

‘What guys?’ El asked from the doorway of her room.

‘Unimportant,’ Mike said, standing. (Lucas met Max’s eyes – he _stood up_ when El entered the room, for Christ’s sake – and they both snickered.) ‘Tell us what happened. Why did you call us?’

‘I felt something,’ El said, coming over and sitting down next to Mike. ‘Something new.’

‘The Demogorgon?’

‘No. But… like the Demogorgon. Not a monster, but… something from a different… world.’ She glanced at Mike for confirmation, but he shrugged and motioned her to go on. ‘Not bad. I don’t think. Just… new.’

‘What do you think it could be?’ Dustin asked, voicing the obvious question. No one had any ideas, though Lucas suggested _good_ inhabitants of the Upside-Down.

‘No,’ Will said to that. ‘Nothing good could live there.’

‘Dart was good!’ Dustin protested.

‘He was born here and raised by you, first of all,’ Will said. ‘And second of all, he ate Mews.’

‘So, just to be clear, the Demogorgon is _not_ back yet?’ Lucas said.

El shook her head. ‘Not yet.’

‘Thank God. Cause we still need to finish the traps.’

‘Today?’ Dustin asked.

‘Today,’ the Party agreed.

* * *

They went to the junkyard – El left a note for Hopper (‘Dear Hop – We are going somewhere and will be back soon – From, El’) on the fridge – and began their preparations.

Dustin, Max, and Lucas, who had been there when Steve set up the area before, argued for the same arrangements. They barricaded the bus with as much extra scrap metal as they could find, made sure to cover the openings in the top of the bus, and sat back as Dustin set up the net trap by himself.

It turned out better than anyone had expected. They tested it on each other – of course they did, it was a _net trap_ – and when Dustin yanked on the pulley rope from inside the bus the net flew into the air and tangled whoever was inside into a jumble of arms and legs and yelling.

By the time they were finished, as prepared as they felt they could possibly be, the sun was already low in the sky.

‘I guess we should head back,’ Dustin said. ‘I hope Hopper’s still out.’

‘He should have been at work today anyway,’ El said. ‘He stayed back just to catch you.’

‘Great.’

They biked back to the cabin. Hopper’s truck was not, in fact, parked by the cabin. They snuck in as quietly as ninjas and as unnecessarily as a physical body for the Mind Flayer, and sat down around the coffee table again.

‘So, when’s he supposed to get back?’ Lucas asked El.

‘Five three five. I mean… thirty five.’

‘I think we should tell him,’ Dustin said suddenly.

‘Tell… Hopper?’

‘About the Demogorgon. Yeah. I think we need him.’

‘We don’t need _him_ ,’ Lucas scoffed. ‘We have El.’

‘Yeah, but…’ Dustin said. ‘Just in case. If something goes wrong, he should know. At least he should be ready in case it comes back and doesn’t come straight for us.’

They considered this. They had assumed that the Demogorgon would appear and attack them as soon as possible, but… what if it decided to hunt?

‘It’s probably gonna be hungry,’ Dustin continued. ‘It’s probably gonna be mad. And El beat it last time, so it’s gonna be… at least a little bit scared of her.’

‘It’ll wait till it’s at full health,’ Will said.

‘And in the meantime, it’ll try to get food. Yeah,’ Dustin said. ‘I think he should know.’

‘Dustin is right,’ El announced. ‘Tell Hopper.’

The Party agreed, eventually.

‘So should we go now?’ Mike asked. ‘Tell him as soon as possible? Or wait till…’

‘Now,’ El said. ‘It’s… pushing. Trying to come back. I can feel it.’

A chill ran down their collective spines. ‘Alright,’ Dustin said. ‘Let’s go. Station. Now.’

‘We _just_ sat down,’ Lucas moaned, stretching his legs.

‘Move,’ Dustin and Max said, at the same time.

He moved.

* * *

‘There’s another house,’ John said.

‘I noticed.’

‘What are we going to do when we get there?’

‘Find transportation to London. Buses and trains and so on. I believe America has some of those things.’

‘I mean for now. We don’t have that much money. Do they even take our money?’

‘I. Don’t. Know.’

The sound of a car came from behind them.

‘Try not to look too conspicuous,’ Sherlock said. ‘Those… teenagers found us very interesting.’

‘We’re two Brits walking in the middle of nowhere. We don’t have a car and you, for one, look like shit. There’s soot on your forehead, by the way. Of course they’d stare.’

The car pulled up alongside them.

‘What the hell—’ John said.

The car was… _old_. Very good condition, but also definitely an old car. And it was a police vehicle.

‘Are they allowed to do that? Use a vintage car for official…’ John whispered.

‘Shut up, John.’

The car slowed to a crawl, matching their speed. The officer leaned his head out of the window. ‘Hey there, fellas,’ he said.

‘Is there a problem, officer?’ Sherlock asked, flashing his most gracious smile.

‘No problem,’ the man said. ‘No problem at all. Where you headed?’

‘Hawkins proper,’ Sherlock said. ‘The... train station.’

‘Hmm,’ the man said. ‘Well, there’s no train station in Hawkins. Why don’t you hop in and I’ll give you a ride.’

‘We’ve lasted barely two hours in America and we’re already in police custody,’ John whispered as he climbed in. ‘Great.’

‘I’m Jim Hopper,’ the man said as they moved off. ‘Hawkins’ chief of police.’

‘Pleasure to meet you,’ Sherlock said. ‘My name is Sherlock Holmes.’

The chief’s smile thinned. He gave them a hard look through the rearview mirror. ‘Alright, buddy,’ he said. ‘And this must be Dr. Watson. How about your real names, huh? I don’t want to have any trouble.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, the 14 chapter estimate is definitely low. Especially if I keep eating up my chapter count with dialogue-heavy chapters like this one where... not much actually happens. (There is a time limit within the story, though, so that's convenient. Always love that.)
> 
> Anyway, comment and kudos if you liked it! I crave attention and since my theatre program is closed due to A Very Bad Virus I receive no positive reinforcement for anything I do! (Especially grades. Good lord, I hate this one teacher... But I digress.)
> 
> Survive!


	4. the weirdos near maple street

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I woke up with a headache and passed out around noon. Maybe I'm dying and don't have to go through the 2020 season finale. 
> 
> Anyway, here's the next chapter.

_November 12 th, 1985_

_Hawkins, Indiana, USA_

He wore all black, sunglasses low on his face and a bandanna high over his nose. Soft-soled boots, leather gloves, and three M9s in various body holsters. He stood before the window, breathing silently. The sun was sinking in the sky, and to any casual observer he would have looked like nothing more than one of the flickering tree shadows.

He had no name anyone living would have recognized him by. The people he worked for called him Harlowe – the man at the top called him Mr. Harlowe – but that was all.

Mr. Harlowe broke the window with his gloved fist wrapped in felt. He crept through the window, avoiding the shards of glass almost unconsciously. It could be said that such careful, sinuous movements such as the movement through the window and over the glass was an innate talent of his; such could also be said of a rattlesnake. Perhaps it would be better to meet the rattlesnake at night on a dark trail, as it is said that the rattlesnake sometimes warns before striking.

Mr. Harlowe, after avoiding the glass, slid silently to the edge of the kitchen and listened for a moment, his breathing stopped and his body absolutely motionless. In moments like these it seemed that even his heart stopped for a moment and hushed to listen.

One moment…

Two…

Then he breathed again, satisfied that no one was in the house; or, if there was someone, they at least were asleep.

He opened El’s bedroom door (silently, for though he believed the house to be empty it was a deep-seated habit of his to open doors silently) and crept through.

It may be noted that words such as _crept_ , _whispered_ , _glanced_ , _slid_ , and other such snakelike, wispy words may always be applied to Mr. Harlowe, and in fact are always implied; and words such as _walked_ , or _spoke_ , or _looked_ , or moved, though technically accurate, don’t quite apply to Harlowe, for they imply normalcy and sound and life. Mr. Harlowe has none of this. Mr. Harlowe does not live, not in the way that Sherlock and Hopper and Eleven do. That is not to say that he is dead; blood still pumps through Mr. Harlowe’s veins and air still runs through his lungs. But if what _they_ do is called living, a different term should be invented for Mr. Harlowe. Something colder, and darker, and less pleasant. Something _quieter_.

He surveyed the room. After a few moments, he unclipped a radio from his hip.

‘Harlowe, reporting,’ he murmured.

‘Harlowe, we copy,’ came the brisk, official-sounding reply. ‘Make your report.’

‘No one’s here. But the girl definitely lives here.’

‘You're sure?’

‘Positive. Where’s the chief of police?’

‘In the station.’

‘Shall I check there next?’ Harlowe asked, already moving towards the door.

‘No. Find a secure location. We’re sending in backup.’

‘Who?’

‘We plan to send Double and North.’

‘No.’

There was a pause, as whoever was on the other side of the radio probably rubbed their forehead. ‘Fine, Harlowe. Who do you want?’

‘Snowman. And Sugarcube.’

‘You're aware that Sugarcube is officially dead? And that to get Snowman we would have to pull him out of Marion? Listen, Harlowe, just…’

‘No.’

There was another, longer pause, as the radio on the other side was passed from person to person. Finally it buzzed back to life. ‘Mr. Harlowe.’

‘Doc.’

‘Mr. Snowman and Miss Sugarcube will join you within a day. Please remain vigilant and ready to move.’

‘Copy. Harlowe out.’

And that was that.

* * *

‘Do you have _any_ idea where he’s going to be back?’ Dustin asked, turning his Dustin-charm on full.

Flo, behind her desk like a queen atop her castle wall, stared back, supremely unimpressed. ‘None at all,’ she said. ‘And if _you_ find him before _I_ do, tell him to turn his damn radio on, you hear me?’

‘Thanks for nothing,’ Dustin muttered as he turned away.

The rest of the Party was waiting outside, after having been shouted at by Powell to ‘take the kiddie club outside, this isn’t a nursery’.

‘Anything?’ Mike asked. Dustin shook his head.

‘Your dad works with some unhelpful people,’ he told El. ‘No. She said they have no idea where he is and he's not answering his radio.’

‘What if those two guys actually… you know,’ Max said. ‘Were up to no good or something.’

‘He could be in trouble,’ Will said.

‘Do you… feel it?’ Mike asked El. ‘The Demogorgon?’

She gave him a look. ‘If I feel it, I will tell you.’

‘…right, sorry.’

‘If he's in trouble, we need to find him,’ Will said. There was no question in his voice. ‘El. Can you see where he is?’

She nodded.

* * *

It took only a very short time for her to find him in the Void. He was sitting, and talking. She couldn’t hear what he was saying – sometimes she could, sometimes she couldn’t, and no one had any idea when or why – but she could see that he wasn’t hurt, and he was near the quarry.

‘Let’s go,’ she said, pulling the blindfold off her eyes.

‘Remember sitting still?’ Lucas asked as he prepared to mount his bicycle. ‘Remember the feeling of not moving? For hours? That was _amazing_.’

‘Come on,’ was all the response he got – from several people, and all at once.

They went.

* * *

Hopper hadn’t had to resort to violence. He had threatened it, certainly, but before it got to that point Sherlock had explained things. ‘If I don’t start getting names, you’ll be headed to the ER instead of the station,’ he had said, the second time John tried to insist that their names _really were Sherlock Holmes and John Watson, what do you mean, what’s wrong with that_. He had even pulled the car over, under a patch of trees next to a lake.

At that point Sherlock had stepped in. Most of what he said had been lies, certainly, but even Hopper’s well-trained police nose had been unable to detect the bullshit from the few scraps of truth Sherlock threw in. They were part of a British acting troupe, John learned. They had been passing through Indiana from NYC to Chicago, and had gotten separated from the rest of their group.

The chief of police had taken that _marginally_ better than their real names. But his moustache was sort of scrunched up and his face was still red, so John decided they weren’t out of the clear yet.

‘Names,’ he growled again.

‘My name is… Sherry Vernet,’ Sherlock had said. ‘And this is… Watt Johnson.’ John rolled his eyes.

‘That wasn’t so hard, was it,’ Hopper grumbled, but he started up the car again. ‘Alright. We’ll find your British actors.’

‘That’s not necessary,’ Sherlock said. ‘You can just drop us off at…’

‘No, I think it is necessary,’ Hopper said, that tight smile back on his face. ‘I wouldn’t want you wandering around Indiana lost and alone, now would I.’

‘What the hell are we going to do now?’ John hissed to Sherlock. ‘British acting troupe, right? Great.’

‘It’s bought us a little time, at least,’ Sherlock said. But John could tell he was upset about something, and it wasn’t the acting troupe.

‘What is it?’

‘Why doesn’t he believe we are who we say we are? Surely I’m not a celebrity in the United States.’

‘They’ve probably heard of you. I have readers all over the world. And he’s a police chief, remember? He’s bound to be interested…’

‘He’s a paranoid, isolated, borderline-bipolar nicotine addict with PTSD and imminent heart failure. He genuinely thinks we’re a threat, and the fact that he didn’t believe we are who we say we are means he knows our names _well_ but has never seen our faces. You put pictures on your blog. And every news story ever done on me features my face, usually beneath The Hat.’ He hesitated. ‘I don’t like this.’

‘We’ve been dragged through a portal by a monster with no face, and you're worried about a paranoid police chief?’

‘His paranoia manifests itself… differently than normal. He does strange things.’

The police chief slammed on the brakes. Sherlock and John flew forward and into the seatbacks ahead of them, and the car skidded to a stop.

‘Strang _er_ ,’ John said. Hopper opened his door. ‘What's he _doing_?’ he asked, still at a whisper.

‘What the hell are you _doing out here_?’ the chief roared. John looked around.

‘It’s those kids,’ he said to Sherlock. ‘The staring ones.’

It was getting dark. The teenagers – six of them, bikes and backpacks distributed amongst the group – were standing on the side of the road, waving to Hopper.

‘You brought _El_?’ Hopper asked. ‘Go back to the cabin! Right now!’

‘Did you find those two guys?’ the red-haired girl asked, squinting to see through the Blazer’s windows.

‘Go home,’ Hopper said, his voice dropping to that false calm which John had already discovered was more ominous than the shouting. ‘Right. Now.’

‘We have to talk to you,’ one of the boys said. ‘It’s the Demogorgon. It’s coming back.’

‘What?’ Hopper asked. He glanced back to the car and stepped further away, lowering his voice further. John couldn’t catch what he said next.

‘The Demogorgon?’ John asked Sherlock. ‘That mean anything to you?’

‘A creature from the board game Dungeons and Dragons,’ Sherlock said almost automatically. ‘It… oh.’

‘What?’

‘I believe that the game is most definitely _on_.’

* * *

‘…and El said she feels it coming back.’

‘Pushing,’ El chimed in. ‘Pushing through. To now.’

‘Right, okay,’ Hopper said, rubbing his temples. ‘Okay, so, you’ve known about this for a whole day and didn’t think to tell me? You’ve been making a damn net trap instead of letting me know about it? I could call Owens, I could call people. You know this, right?’

‘We know,’ Mike said. ‘That’s why we’re telling you now.’

‘Why we’re telling you at all,’ Lucas muttered. Hopper heard him.

‘Oh, well, thanks,’ he said. ‘I'm so honored to be allowed into your little club. Do I get a badge or something, saying ‘A bunch of fourteen-year-olds let me in on some basic essential information’? Get in the car. Wait, no. God.’ He rubbed his temples some more.

Max squinted at the car again. ‘So you do have them?’

‘Yeah, I picked them up. They're just a couple of fishy British actors. I’m gonna take them in, scare them a little, and put them on a bus to Chicago. Okay. Here’s what's going to happen… No, no, listen to me, no more of your Hardy Boys bullshit. I am the adult here. You're going to go back to the cabin. You're going to take El home right now, and pray that no one saw her out here. Then you're all going to phone your parents and say…’ He hesitated, his jaw working. ‘Say you're all out having sleepovers or some shit like that.’

‘Wait, really?’ Will asked. ‘You're not telling us to stay out of it?’

Hopper glared. ‘Last time the Upside Down _happened_ , it came for you all specifically. It knows you’re a pain in its ass. I'm not letting you go your separate ways and get picked off one by one.’

‘That makes sense,’ Dustin said.

‘It should. I'm the voice of authority, curly. Now go.’

‘We’re going, we’re going,’ Dustin said. They got on their bikes, Lucas’ grumbling a background noise at this point, and biked away.

Hopper eyed them suspiciously until they were out of sight, and got back into the car.

‘Officer,’ Vernet asked him. ‘I couldn’t help but overhear…’

‘Don’t want to hear it, buddy,’ Hopper said. They were already getting on his nerves, and their damn posh Brit accents grated on his ears worse than Tuppy Isaacs’ Louisiana drawl. ‘Keep your mouths shut and smiles on your faces and we will part ways very quickly.’

‘I couldn’t help but overhear the word Demogorgon.’

Hopper slammed on the brakes for the second time in ten minutes. ‘What?’

‘Demogorgon,’ Vernet repeated, his bright smile still plastered on his face.

‘Who are you with?’ Hopper asked. ‘Owens sent you? Does he know you're here?’

‘We’re not with anyone,’ the man said. ‘But we’ve had a strange day.’

‘Oh yeah?’ Hopper asked. ‘Acting troupes must get real crazy, huh. Well, it’s just that dumb kids’ game. Dragons and… dragons. I don’t know why they get so…’

Vernet cut him off. ‘It didn’t sound like a game,’ he said, leaning forward. ‘It sounded very serious. And you're scared.’

‘What are you talking about?’

‘You haven’t stopped tapping the wheel since you sat down. You’ve felt for a pack of cigarettes twice, both times forgetting that you don’t have one on you.’ He sat back. ‘We would like to tell you a story.’

‘Would we really?’ the shorter one hissed to Vernet. ‘What…’

‘Actually, my friend here will tell you the story,’ Vernet said. ‘He’s the storyteller between the two of us.’

Hopper sighed, and put the car in park.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Both the name of this fic and 'Sherry Vernet' are a reference to the collection of Sherlock Holmes/Lovecraft mythos stories 'Shadows Over Baker Street'. The best of which, in my opinion, is 'A Study in Emerald' by Neil Gaiman who is one of my favorite authors _anyway_ (that's where Sherry Vernet comes from). 
> 
> (Also, Sherlock and John _still_ don't know that they're in 1985, and I'm dreading writing that scene in any sort of believable fashion.)
> 
> Survive!


	5. the monster (or lack thereof)

Murray Bauman, conspiracy theorist and (former) investigative journalist, was, as the kids say, _freaking out_.

Back when he had been involved with what he called the Great Cleansing – the closing of Hawkins Lab – he had, as part of the contract they had all signed, requested an _in_ on the doings of the Government with a capital G. After a lot of negotiation, Owens had reluctantly provided him with a radio with access to a ‘top secret’ channel. No one knew he had it. Especially not The Man. It hadn’t given him much – a few coded messages he assumed were about nukes, and once something about where the president was going to be traveling. For the most part the radio sat silent in a drawer.

And now it was coming alive. Something was happening. Something big. Someone was being sent somewhere, and other people were being sent other places, and there was a lot of talk about ‘the girl’.

And there was only one girl that could cause this much activity. So Murray needed to tell Hopper. But not over phone, obviously.

And wouldn’t you know it, the roads to Hawkins had been closed off. Completely barricaded. Army and state police and the guys in suits and sunglasses. Lots of guns and ties and bullshit about a gas leak.

So he had turned around and gone back to his panic room slash house slash fortress, locked himself in, and tried to _think._

Well, a phone call was better than nothing.

So he made a call.

* * *

Mr. Harlowe was waiting when the vans arrived. There were three vans, black with tinted windows and no license plates. They pulled to a stop around him, in a clearing in the woods. They were a few miles from the nearest road.

The van doors opened in unison. Out of the first van came four men with large rifles and wide shoulders; out of the second came five more men with equally large rifles and larger shoulders; and out of the third came two people, a man and a woman, wearing handcuffs and blindfolds. They weren’t particularly large, and they weren’t holding anything at all. But Harlowe knew them to be two of the most dangerous people in the U.S.

‘Hello,’ he said. The woman called Sugarcube stiffened.

‘I died just so I never had to hear your voice again,’ she said.

‘I haven’t been hearing anyone’s voice but mine for the last year and a half,’ Snowman said. ‘I was in solitary. I wrote a book, actually.’

‘With what?’ Sugarcube asked. ‘They let you have a pen in there?’

‘All in my head. I have a very good memory.’

‘Do you know what we’re here to do?’ Harlowe asked.

‘The big man gave us some light reading,’ Sugarcube said. ‘We know what we need to know.’

‘Have you ever seen this girl?’ Snowman asked Harlowe. ‘And could someone take these off?’

‘Go on,’ Harlowe said to one of the men with guns. ‘Take them off.’

The blindfolds and handcuffs were removed.

‘That’s nice,’ Snowman said, rubbing his hands. ‘I haven’t seen sunlight in three years.’

‘I haven’t seen her,’ Harlowe said. ‘But a bullet can kill her, same as anyone else.’

‘Or a hammer,’ Sugarcube suggested. ‘Or a knife. Or a sandbag. Or a car. Or a wire.’

‘For someone who’s supposed to be dead, you have some very boring ways of killing people,’ Snowman said. ‘A hammer was your first choice?’

‘It came to mind. And it comes to hand.’

Harlowe turned and walked away. He assumed they would follow him eventually. If not, they knew where to find him.

Actually, they probably didn’t. Well, they knew where to find the girl.

* * *

‘We were in our flat in London—’ John began. ‘Um. A flat is, I guess you'd say ‘apartment’?’

‘I know what _flat_ means,’ the chief ground out. ‘Get on with it.’

‘And, well, a thing came through the wall.’

Hopper straightened. ‘A thing.’

John shot one last look at Sherlock – this was a sure way to get sent to a ward – but Sherlock’s eyes were closed as if he were doing nothing more than enjoying a story. ‘It had arms and legs. But no face, just… well, almost like a flower. I can’t describe it.’

‘Stop talking,’ the chief said. ‘I've heard enough.’

‘I…’ John said. ‘Listen, I'm not lying. It sounds insane, but—’

‘Oh, I believe you,’ the chief said. ‘About the Demogorgon. What I don’t believe is the whole act about you not knowing Owens. I think you're lying. So I'm taking you to someone who’s a big expert on lies.’

‘What are you talking about?’

‘I'm taking you to meet my daughter.’

* * *

They got back to the cabin at about the same time as Hopper, who pulled in right behind them with squealing wheels and a spray of leaves and dust. They let out a collective sigh and, as if on cue, turned their bikes into the headlights and stared exasperatedly at the windshield. It was already dark and the headlights blinded them, so they couldn’t _actually_ see Hopper behind the wheel, but it was the thought that counted.

‘What did we do now?’ Mike grumbled.

‘I bet I’m missing a taillight,’ Max said, making a show of checking the back of her bike seat. El laughed.

Mike didn’t think it was all that funny.

Hopper got out of the car. He wasn’t moving all that fast.

‘You think he’s hurt?’ Will whispered.

‘What?’ Mike whispered back. ‘What are you talking about?’

‘I don’t know. He seems unsure.’

‘Go inside!’ Hopper shouted. ‘I have some… people you’re gonna meet.’

‘Oh, Jesus,’ Dustin said. ‘It’s those guys. He’s got those guys in there.’

‘Why are they _here_?’ Max asked. But Hopper’s stance and expression made it clear that they weren’t going to find out until they moved, so they went up onto the porch, dropped their bikes by the door, and went inside.

Watching through the window, they say Hopper pull the two people out of the car – ‘definitely them,’ Lucas said, to a chorus of ‘yeah, duh’s – and handcuff them carefully. Then he led them up the porch and inside.

* * *

Hopper wasn’t entirely sure _what_ exactly he was doing or thinking. He was sure that he would yell at himself about it later, but somehow the best thing seemed to be to bring these two _incredibly suspicious_ strangers in, to see the girl with the superpowers.

They knew about the Demogorgon, right? It wasn’t like he was revealing earth-shattering secrets to just any random stranger.

No, he was revealing earth-shattering secrets to two very _specific_ random strangers. Two specific random British guys who he had picked up solely because a pack of teenagers told him their clothes were weird.

God, he was losing his goddamn mind, wasn’t he.

He brought them inside and sat them down on the couch. The kids – the Party, though he refused to call them that out loud – were gathered, staring unashamedly.

It wasn’t like they were aliens, or anything. It wasn’t a show. ‘Alright, sit down,’ he told them. They obeyed. ‘And if any of you talks without my permission I swear to God you’re going home, and if you get eaten that’s on you.’

Nods.

He turned back to the Brits. ‘Alright, now,’ he said. ‘Tell me again.’

‘The whole thing?’ the shorter one said hesitantly, shooting a glance at the kids.

‘Yeah. That’s what I said.’

They told it again. They didn’t tell it any better – the Henderson boy would have added sound effects and acted out some of the parts, he knew – but by the end of it he found him believing them.

Just a _little._ A tiny bit.

‘Wow,’ Lucas said, the first one to break the silence after the story finished. ‘That’s crazy.’ He turned to El. ‘So it _is_ back!’

Hopper didn’t understand, but the rest of the kids seemed to think this was a big deal. El’s eyes were wide. ‘No,’ she said, shaking her head. ‘It’s not back. I don’t feel it.’

‘But then how…’ Mike started to say.

‘Holy _shit_ ,’ Dustin said. ‘Wait… wait. Holy _shit_.’

‘What?’ Mike asked, exasperated. ‘Say it, Dustin.’

‘You guys, I think I get it.’

‘Dustin, I swear to God,’ Mike said.

‘What do you think the date is?’ Dustin asked the story-telling man on the couch, with the air of a magician preparing to make the big reveal.

‘November, ah, eleventh?’ the man – Watt? Was that his name? – said. ‘Christ, maybe it’s the twelfth.’

‘Yeah, yeah, yeah,’ Dustin said, waving his hand. ‘It’s the twelfth, but I mean: what _year_?’

‘Two thousand ten,’ Watt said, his forehead pinching.

They all reacted essentially the same way, Hopper noticed. All the kids. They all sort of gasped, and then got incredulous smiles on their faces which told him immediately that they _thought it was cool_ and _weren’t fucking taking it seriously_. Because Watt wasn’t lying, Hopper could tell. Not about that. He had said that number, that year that Hopper had never even _thought_ about, with all the confidence and matter-of-fact-ness of a toddler declaring that they were three years old.

Two thousand and goddamn ten. That was the kind of year you’d see in computery numbers in a scifi B movie.

‘You guys went through _time_ ,’ Dustin finally said, with a sort of deep-seated satisfaction that made Hopper want to go over and smack him in the head. ‘You guys went through time.’

The two men on the couch had gone pale. Well, pal _er_. ‘What year _is_ it?’ Watt asked.

‘Nineteen-eighty-five,’ Hopper told him.

‘Jesus Christ.’

* * *

‘Nineteen-eighty-five,’ the chief said. Sherlock nodded mentally. It was all beginning to make more sense. Well, not sense, not really, not after an impossible creature had burst through their wall and dragged them through a stoner’s nightmare. But pieces were fitting together.

And it wasn’t a stoner’s nightmare. He was sober and had been for three months. He knew _that_ much, for sure. He was at least still master of his own mind.

‘Jesus Christ,’ John said softly next to him. Sherlock decided it was time to speak up before John embarrassed himself by _talking_.

‘Now that we’ve established that we have moved through time as well as space,’ he said, ‘and taken an appropriate amount of time to express shock, astonishment, and disbelief, there are a few other things I would like to clear up. First of all, Chief Hopper, why didn’t you believe us when we told you our names?’

‘Are you joking?’ Hopper said. ‘No, you’re not. Well, let me break this down into simple words so you can stop with this.’ He began to speak slowly and clearly. ‘Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson are characters from a _book_ , you understand, and they smoke _pipes_ and wear _hats_ and go around with _magnifying glasses_. People in _real life_ aren’t named Sherlock Holmes normally, because that would be incredibly _stupid_.’

‘When you say real life,’ Sherlock said, ‘I assume you mean the one where giant monsters climb through people’s walls and then pull them through time.’

The chief hesitated for a moment. ‘…Right,’ he finally said.

‘I do actually have a hat,’ Sherlock said. ‘I don’t wear it often because it looks stupid. It’s called a deerstalker, apparently.’

‘What?’

‘My name is Sherlock Holmes. This is my friend, Dr. John Watson. I am the world’s only consulting detective – I will be, in twenty-ten – and I do in fact go around with a magnifying glass. I’m not a pipe man; I prefer a cigarette, and use nicotine patches because smoking is bad for the lungs.’

‘I don’t get it,’ the chief said slowly.

‘I'm not surprised. I'm in a book, you said? I assume it’s a relatively famous book, if the name isn’t used. Do you have a copy here?’

‘Um,’ the chief said, now looking definitely confused. Sherlock supposed this could be considered his standard expression. He hadn’t exactly impressed with his sparkling intellect.

‘Sherlock Holmes,’ said one of the girls. She spoke carefully, as if making sure she pronounced each word correctly. She fascinated Sherlock, mostly because he could not manage to read her in the slightest. ‘Great Cases of Sherlock Holmes. I have that book.’

‘Okay,’ Hopper said, still staring at Sherlock. ‘Could you go get it?’

The girl went, and came back, and handed Sherlock a book. The title indeed read ‘Great Cases of Sherlock Holmes’, and the illustration on the front depicted a man with a deerstalker, a ridiculous pipe, and an incredibly smug look on his face. The author was ‘Sir Arthur Conan Doyle’.

‘Have you ever heard of this?’ Sherlock asked. John shook his head. ‘I hope you don’t mind if I take a look?’ Sherlock asked of the room, without expecting an answer. He opened the book.

It was a collection of six short stories. A glance down the table of contents told him nothing at first, but then he frowned. ‘‘A Study in Scarlet’,’ he read. ‘John?’

‘Like a Study in Pink. What the hell…’

‘This is very interesting,’ Sherlock said, and snapped the book shut. ‘And I will certainly read this later. But for now: we are clearly real people of flesh and blood, in a time and place that is not our own. You have had experience with this creature before?’

‘Yeah,’ the chief said, rubbing his forehead. ‘Yeah, we have.’

‘Then I hope you’ll help us.’

‘Help you with what?’

‘Help us get back to 2010.’

‘Yeah, yeah,’ the chief said. ‘Piece of cake. Just shoot you back through time. Why not.’

‘That’s the spirit,’ Sherlock said. ‘Now, could you direct us to a hotel or motel or wherever it is people spend the night in Hawkins, Indiana?’

The chief squinted. ‘I don’t think so,’ he said. ‘I’ve got sleeping bags in the attic. You two are sleeping here.’

It was clear that the man didn’t want to let them out of his sight, believable their story might be. So Sherlock didn’t argue, and let the chief set them up in the living room with sleeping bags. He left their handcuffs on, which Sherlock thought was a nice touch of superiority.

‘What the hell are we going to do?’ John hissed at Sherlock.

‘Do you think I have the slightest idea,’ Sherlock answered. ‘I have just had every core belief shaken irrefutably. I am a fictional character from a book written by a man I’ve never heard of. I am going to sleep.’ He took a deep breath. ‘Don’t worry. When I wake up I’ll have figured everything out.’

John snorted.

* * *

_November 13 th, 1985_

_Hawkins, Indiana, U.S.A._

The day dawned bright and clear and cold. Hopper had slept badly, the knowledge that there were two men in his living room who had come from the future hanging over him in his dreams. Most of his dreams had involved running from legions of Demogorgons with British accents.

He clothed himself presentably and went into the living room. They were both awake, sitting up and talking quietly.

‘Morning,’ Hopper growled. He didn’t like to speak in the mornings, not before he had had a cigarette.

And a coffee. And a beer. And another cigarette.

He didn’t like to speak in the mornings.

‘Good morning,’ Sherlock Holmes said. God, Hopper couldn’t get over that. Not that he _should_ have been able to get over it, whispered the last bit of his brain that still remembered when the world used to make sense. Not that he needed to get over the fact that Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson were sitting in his living room in handcuffs.

And they came from _the future_. Just to clarify.

He made coffee. When the pot had brewed, he gestured at it. ‘Coffee?’

‘Tea,’ Holmes said.

‘What?’

The man had the audacity to look affronted. ‘ _Tea_ ,’ he repeated. ‘Black, one sugar.’

‘Yeah, no. In this house we drink coffee.’

‘John, do they have tea in America?’

‘Thought they did.’

‘Chief Hopper, I require either tea or crystal meth at the moment. Whichever is easiest for you to find.’

‘You require, huh. That’s great.’ Hopper poured himself a cup. ‘You want one?’ he asked the other one, Watson.

‘No, I'm fine, thanks,’ the man said, glaring at Holmes.

‘I just want to make sure I understand,’ Holmes said. ‘You _don’t have_ tea but you do have coffee?’

‘That’s right. You got it.’

Holmes shook his head in wonder.

El stumbled out of her room, hair pushed up on one side of her head. She rubbed her eyes.

‘Hey,’ Hopper said. ‘Good morning.’

‘Mmhmm,’ she grumbled, and took the untasted coffee out of Hopper’s hands. She eyed the men in the living room, finally deciding on a nod in greeting.

‘This is my daughter Jane,’ Hopper said. ‘El for short.’ Neither Holmes or Watson seemed to question it. Holmes didn’t seem to care, to be honest. He was looking at the book. The book about _him_.

‘Nice to meet you, Jane,’ Watson said. ‘My name is John.’

She nodded again. ‘Is he actually a detective?’ she asked, looking at Sherlock.

‘Um,’ Watson – John – said. ‘Yeah. He works with the police to solve crimes. He…’

‘I can answer the questions about me, thank you, John,’ Sherlock said, still reading his book and turning the pages concerningly quickly. ‘Jane, I am the only consulting detective in the world. I solve crimes that are too complicated for normal people. When the police can’t figure out what happened, they call me, and I do their job for them. They are often very inept, and I am always very clever. Surprisingly similar to my… alter-ego in these stories.’ He tapped the page of the book. ‘This is fascinating.’

‘He’s incredibly humble, too,’ said Watson. ‘Not a huge shock that the thing he’s most interested in is stories about himself.’

‘These are terribly written,’ Holmes said. ‘But the concepts are well-thought-out. I’ll remember this the next time I see Lestrade.’ He looked up. ‘Sorry, did I answer your question?’

‘Yes,’ El said, still watching him.

‘…Did you want something?’

‘No.’

He frowned. ‘I don’t like children in general, because they're very boring. You're not. Not quite.’

‘That’s a compliment, coming from him,’ Watson put in. Somehow, Hopper could have told that for himself.

‘Your daughter is a blank slate,’ Holmes said, suddenly. Hopper raised an eyebrow.

‘Oh, really?’

‘I don’t know anything about her.’

‘You don’t know anything about any of us,’ Hopper reminded him. Holmes shook his head.

‘No. No, you're easy. You were married happily with a wife and child for as long as ten years. You lost the child – sorry about that – and your wife split up. You were a soldier in Vietnam – served on the front lines – you grew up here and came back after the war. You adopted Jane recently – right, a year ago. I won’t talk about your mental illnesses – I've noticed that can offend people – but there are a few. That’s from a glance around the room. But the girl…’

‘Wait a goddamn minute,’ Hopper growled. ‘How do you know…’

Holmes sighed. ‘You made yourself a full pot of coffee on instinct – I watched you, you were barely conscious – so you’ve been married in the past, probably for a while. This girl isn’t your biological daughter, that much is obvious. You had a wife and a child—’

Hopper rumbled warningly.

‘Clearly not a happy memory. You didn’t split up because of a fight or anything trivial like that. You kept the ring; it’s on the counter. And there’s a child’s drawing on the wall, not made by _her_ – by someone much younger. No pictures on the walls. Probably because it’s too painful to see the child – a girl – to see her face every day, remember what happened. You still have nightmares about it. Vietnam was simple – you were clearly a soldier, and that’s the only war you're the right age to have fought in.’

Hopper was furious and impressed at the same time. He didn’t let the impressed part show. ‘What about adopting Jane?’

‘What?’

‘You said I adopted her a year ago. How’d you know that?’

Holmes stared at him. ‘She told me just now, as I was talking. That wasn’t deduction, that’s…’

‘She did not!’ Hopper said. Watson shook his head in agreement with Hopper. ‘Sherlock? She didn’t say anything.’

* * *

Holmes stared at them each in turn. ‘What are you talking about?’ He had heard her, distinctly. He had said, ‘You adopted Jane recently,’ she had said, ‘A year ago,’ and he had gone on with his spiel.

He would not lose his mind. Not his mind. He was still master of his mind. He would not begin hearing things. Surely they were wrong – they just hadn’t heard her – he hadn’t deduced a year, he would have guessed closer to three, he knew that.

She had _said_ it. He had heard her.

He wiped his nose. Great. A nosebleed, too, on top of everything else. This day kept getting better.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm pretty excited for how this fic is shaping out. Hopefully the payoff will be worth it. 
> 
> Comment if you liked it! Comment if you hated it! Comment if you were indifferent!
> 
> Survive!


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